Trip Wire
by TiggitNeko
Summary: There's a very fine line between accepting your faults, and obsessing over them. It's a line that he crossed a long time ago, but now, he can feel the effects.


**TiggitNeko here! thank you so much for reading, it would be fantastic if you could leave a review before you go. All reviews are welcome, don't worry.**

**This was supposed to he hinting at Paranoia, self harm and...some kind of eating disorder...It's not very clear, I don't think, but I gave it a shot anyway. Read on, my dears, and I hope you enjoy! Drop a review, please, if you will. **

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Sunlight streamed in through a chink in the curtains, amplified ten times by the blindingly white snow that enveloped his land. Blinking, Russia rolled over and groaned, flinging an arm over his face to protect his eyes from the light.

All he wanted to do was roll over and sleep…and maybe not wake up. After hundreds upon hundreds of years of life, death was just a distant dream of ultimate rest and peace. How could mortals fear it so much?

As he pulled himself out of bed, stumbling across the room to fix the curtains, he felt the sickeningly familiar pain settle into his stomach. Hunger was something he had become accustomed to, the same as the stinging in his wrists.

He had found starving himself relatively easy, he thought, as he sat down on the edge of the bed, trying to blink away the spots that had formed in his vision. Well, not _starving _himself exactly, he still ate a single meal in the mornings, just enough to keep him going until he could collapse in his bedroom, away from any one else.

Being a nation, he was a representative of his whole people, and showing weakness to any single person at all would be letting them down.

He didn't have the luxury of crying out for help.

A small smile spread over his lips as he thought about it.

Letting his people down was all he ever seemed to do. It was what he was most known for in the history books, was it not?

Finally, with a yawn and a stretch, he hauled his still-heavier-than-he-would-have-liked frame off the bed and walked to the bathroom, knuckling the light switch on the way past.

The tiles chilled his bare feet, and prickled the bare skin of his torso. Ignoring the cold, Russia padded almost tentatively to the mirror, dreading what he would see.

He was tempted to skip the entire morning routine of hating himself, and just shower and fuck off to the long over due world meeting, but he told himself what he didn't want to hear.

_You have to do this._ Self discipline was something he prided himself on, and he would go to hell before he threw it all away.

So he looked, and he saw, and he hated.

True, he had lost a considerable amount of weight over the past few months, but it _wasn't enough_.

He couldn't see how hollow his cheeks had become or how his pyjama pants hung off his hips, nor how much thinner his wrists were, or the way you could just see his ribs.

All he saw was _fat_. He glared at his reflection. He hated how chubby his faced looked, how he could grab handfuls of fat on his waist and hips. It disgusted him, and he hated himself for letting this happen, for not _noticing_ how vile his body had become over the years.

The other Nations had noticed, though, hadn't they? They whispered behind their hands _whisper, whisper, and whisper…._talked about him. They thought he was a disgrace. They would never say so out loud, oh no, they were far too afraid of his power for that…but he knew what they thought.

Even as he moved away from his reflection, looking away in shame, the image of his body still glowed in his mind, burned into his sight.

How selfish of him, to over indulge for so long, and not give a damn. To him, it didn't seem so long ago that his people were dying of starvation in their thousands, frozen bodies lining the streets of Moscow as children screamed in anguish and pain, begging for food that never came.

Guilt flooded through him in a hot wave. How could he have been such a glutton?

_Not anymore…_ a thin, fragile grin spread slowly across his lips again. He would make it better. He wouldn't allow himself to stoop so low again.

He slid off his pants and stepped into the shower, gasping as he turned the dial and icy water gushed against his skin.

He would wash, dress and eat his one meal. Then he would turn up early to the meeting, as he always did. Then, he would train for the rest of the day.

He was roped with muscle anyway, for he was a mighty country after all, but simply not eating was not enough. He needed to be _perfect._

His many wars, including the world wars, had taught him discipline and survival. He had not practiced those skills nearly enough in the past years, and he would make up for it, as he had been for months now.

He had to be _PERFECT._

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**What did you think? Any ideas for future fics? I'm open to any inspiration from you guys, i'll even try some one-word drabbles, if you wish. Any pairing is welcome, although I do like RussUK and GeRuss the best ~**


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